A taste of the ashes
by finmagik
Summary: As a boy, Havelock Vetinari watches his mother dying. This is the story of his childhood. Revised and with 50 percent more content.
1. Chapter 1

Taste of the Ashes

In a good neighborhood, on a wide tree-lined street, there was a once-grand house. The paint was peeling, the garden overgrown; the halls were silent and dusty.

There was a bedroom in this house - a sumptuous dark bedroom, with heavy curtains drawn over the windows and the bed. The bed itself was huge; a vast sea of rich blankets and pillows girded by richly carved bedsteads. In this bed laid a figure, a dark-haired woman so thin that she looked more like a skeleton with skin stretched over it. She wore a white shift. She looked lost and small. By side of the bed on a chair sat a boy with the same dark hair.

He had been there for two days, keeping vigil. The woman was his mother. When she dies, he will be orphaned.

He has watched both his parents die. Comparing the two, he would much rather die like his father; his mother had it worse. Father's death had been relatively quick. This consumption, this cancer was far worse. He knew why the called it consumption, because it seemed his mother was being eaten away by something from within. She was never a large woman but she grew thinner and weaker. No matter what she ate, she kept getting thinner. It was insidious. The body rebelled; creating tumors that grew quickly and uncontrollably. It wasn't right that your body was trying to kill you. It would slowly destroy your body and steal your strength. It was a long lingering, painful death. He hoped that when he died it would faster, and cleaner.

Her eyes flickered open.

"Havelock," she wheezed. "Havelock, my son."

"Yes, Mother?" he asked.

"I have something to tell you," she said. "Something important, you must know the truth before I die…"

"Yes?" he asked.

"You know your father and uncle were executed by Lord Smince," she said.

"Of course," he said. "They were falsely accused of trying to overthrow The Patrician; we had to leave Ankh-Morpork for two years because of it-"

"They weren't falsely accused," she sighed.

"What?" he said.

"We were part of a group trying to overthrow… Lord Smince," she whispered. "We wanted to make your Uncle Wilfred, Patrician… however someone within the group betrayed us… and the guild leaders abandoned us… Your father and uncle were left alone…all alone…You remember… when they took them out to Sator Square, after that so-called trial? You didn't cry you, you watched them murder your father and you didn't cry were such a brave little boy…" She closed her eyes.

She was quiet for a few minutes but she was still breathing,

"You told me not to cry," he said.

"Yes, but you were only five. I never thought that you would be able to obey - all those people jeering, shouting, -" she said. "I never loved your father when he was alive, but I tried, I really tried… I was just ugly and too cruel… nothing he ever did was good enough…"

"Mother, are you all right?" he asked.

"Fine, fine, sorry, I was just- thinking, my child," she said. "I do love you. Don't cry when I'm gone."

"Mother, do you know who betrayed Father and Uncle Wilfred?" he asked.

"Yes," she gasped. She closed her eyes again.

"Will you tell me?"

"Yes," she said in a quieter voice. "First will you get me some water? There should be a pitcher on the dresser. I'm so thirsty."

"Of course, Mother," he said. He got up and walked over to the dresser.

She sat watching him, things were getting filmy and misty the room was slipping away. There was a tall dark figure beside her bed. She turned and looked…

ODILIA VETINARI.

"It's Vetinari-De prav."

IT SAYS ODILIA VETINARI.

"Anyway, you can't do this now, not yet - just a minute more, there is something I have to tell him."

THERE IS NO MORE TIME.

"It's important, I'll give you anything you want; anything at all," She said. "All my wealth is at your command for a minute more."

THERE IS NOTHING I WANT. YOU HAVE NO MORE TIME.

The scythe came down. She floating free, from her body she was above it.

She watched in a detached way as her son approached her body. He was calm at first, but when she failed to respond he became frantic. Then realizing his efforts were in vain, he stopped. Finally, he began to cry softly.

"Pah, he's crying. He knew I was going die, why is he crying like that?"

HE'S ONLY A CHILD.

"That's no excuse," she sniffed. "I taught him better than that; I taught him to control his emotions."

YOU CAN'T STOP HIM.

"No, I can't. I used to worry about what would happen to him; he's going to live with that woman," she said. "His aunt, my husband's sister, tasteless brash creature, and what's more she betrayed us to Lord Smince. She might smother Havelock in his sleep…."

With those words, she dissolved into thin air.

It was gray day a week later when they held her funeral. They stood in a fine cemetery in good part of town with manicured lawns, a few trees and lots of fairly large gravestones, obelisks, angels, and other monuments to the dead. They stood in front of the Vetinari Mausoleum, where several generations had been interred. The Mausoleum was white marble; it had columns. On the top was a statue of a female figure dressed in flowing robes, with outstretched arms. It was meant to look like she was welcoming the deceased, but instead the sculptor had gotten it a little off, so she appeared to be shrugging her shoulders as if to say: 'So you're dead. What do want me to do about it?'

It was a rather modest affair: a few elderly relatives, servants, young master Vetinari, and his tutor Mr. Satchet. A priest was in attendance, giving some religious invocation.

Odilia Vetinari had never been popular. She had always spoken her opinions plainly and bluntly and not cared what other people thought, and most of her opinions were that other people are morons. The elderly relatives were there because they thought it was good form to attend funerals no matter how awful the person was, even if she had called them senile old fools1. The servants were there for about the same reason; also, they had been paid by certain elderly relatives to attend. Mr. Satchet was there to provide comfort to his young charge. The priest was there because someone had to say something over the body. The young master was there because they had made him attend. Also, this was his mother.

Everyone had found his behavior very strange: he didn't cry or wail or even look downcast. He stood there in his little black suit and polished black shoes that pinched, staring straight ahead blankly and silently.

When it over and everyone was going their separate ways, Mr. Sachet was alone with Havelock. Mr. Satchet was a chubby, nervous young man. And he was also was feeling quite guilty because since the beginning of employment, he had been paid in secret by Lady Meserole to send bi-weekly reports about Havelock to her. It had been good money, but really, it wasn't right.

Now, the guilt ate him up inside.

He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, in an attempt to comfort him. Havelock took a step away from him, and once out of Mr. Satchet's grasp he turned and gave Mr. Satchet a cold look. It wasn't a glare, but it gave Mr. Satchet the impression that the boy was looking through him.

"M-master Havelock," he said. "Don't worry about your mother; she's gone to a better place."

The boy said nothing, just looked at him.

"I'm sorry about what happened to her, she isn't in any pain anymore. Look, if you need anything at all -," he said.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" the boy sighed.

"No, I'm not," Mr. Satchet confessed.

"You should stick to teaching Maths; you do very well with Maths," said the boy.

"Erm, thank you, Master Vetinari." Mr. Satchet said. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a hug?"

"No, no thank you," the boy said shaking his head and taking a step backwards.

"Wonderful," Mr. Satchet said with a relieved sigh.

"Ah, Master Vetinari," said an oleaginous voice from behind them. "I've been looking for you."

Mr. Satchet and Havelock turned around. There was a man standing there. He was greasy looking and with a receding hairline, and he was wearing a nice suit. Mr. Satchet immediately moved in front of Havelock, shielding him from the man. "Who are you?" Mr. Satchet asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Me? I am called Mr. Brass," he said. "I'm here from my mistress, the Lady Meserole, to collect the boy."

"How do I know you're from her and how did you get here so fast?" Mr. Satchet asked. "I'm not handing the young master off to anyone."

"I thought you might ask that," Mr. Brass said with a smile. "Here is my proof," He reached into coat and pulled out a folded letter and handed it to Mr. Satchet.

Mr. Satchet opened the letter. It was from Lady Meserole; the handwriting was unmistakable. Also, to add weight, there was a seal. The letter introduced one Mr. H. M. Brass and said as much as the man himself had. Mr. Satchet scanned its contents suspiciously. Havelock peered out from Mr. Satchet. Mr. Brass gave the boy a wave and smile and he darted behind his tutor again.

"All right, that's in order," Mr. Satchet said. "But you haven't answered my second question."

"We left Genua when news reached us that Lady Vetinari was on her death bed," Mr. Brass said. "In fact, you were the one who sent us the news. Oh, and M'lady said I should give you this for the last bit of news."

Mr. Brass reached in another pocket and pulled out a bag of jingling coins. Mr. Satchet colored and made a few inarticulate noises of embarrassment, but took the coins.

Havelock looked up at his tutor warily and moved away from him.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," Mr. Satchet muttered.

"You're just earning a living," Mr. Brass said. "Tutors get piss poor money and the late Lady was a very mean woman with her funds."

He was in the coach now; it was dusty and dark, and the roads were bumpy. He wasn't alone. Mr. Brass was sitting across from him, writing something in a ledger. Whenever Mr. Brass looked up, he smiled. It was meant to be comforting; however, it looked like the smile of a shark.

Havelock wished he had a book, or something amusing. His father's sister, Lady Meserole, had visited once when he was a baby, but he didn't remember anything about her. He barely remembered his father. Of course he had a memory of his father's execution; it wasn't something he was ever likely to forget. Other than that, he only remember a tall, balding man who use to smile in a bemused sort of way; when they met his father would pat him on the head, give him a hard piece of toffee and sometimes attempted to make awkward conversation.

Of course, thinking about one parent lead to thinking about the other.

Thinking about Mother was much harder; she had been the one constant thing in his life.

He knew that others didn't like her; he had seen the way the people would stiffen when she spoke to them, the fact he had seven nurses in less then five years. He knew she had other flaws, but unlike with other people he couldn't seem to find them.

It was painful to think of her, like getting a needle in the side. A part of him wanted to cry: after all, he was alone, and she was dead. She wouldn't scold him for mourning her now. In way, it was almost a need to cry.

Then he looked up and saw Mr. Brass staring at him over the top of the ledger. If he cried, he'd showing weakness in front of that man, and that man would think of him as nothing more than a silly child. That awful greasy man would probably pull out a filthy handkerchief and or even try to touch him.

That worked; he might be miserable, hot, and vaguely nauseous but he wasn't a crybaby.

He closed his eyes, and tried to think of something else: a problem in a game of chess, a very hard problem. However, all he could think of was a cold drizzling morning, in his Uncle Duval's castle when Mother taught him to play chess. He could see her face so clearly leaning over the chessboard.

No, he couldn't think about chess.

So instead, he thought of a passage in a book he was reading something by a man called Kobbs. That lead to more memories of evenings when they would sit by the fire and read together, and when she was dying he would read to her. Not one of thoughts provided an escape from her; it didn't matter because she was the only one he had really.

He thought back to the last time that he was leaving Ankh-Morpork. The last time it had been night, and the horses had been driven until they ran like demons, behind them the old house was a gigantic fireball against the dark horizon. And his mother clutched him tightly to her side, so tight it almost hurt. She didn't cry or whimper but he could hear her heartbeat thundering in his ear.

He was five years old, it was a week after Father and Uncle Wilfred had been executed. They had moved into grandfather's home along with Aunt Annalisa, Wilfred's wife, and his seven cousins. Grandfather had house much larger then where they lived.

It was late at night; all the children had been put to bed in the nursery. None of the children could sleep. Everyone was too nervous, and scared and angry. Some of them were crying, and wouldn't stop crying. He couldn't remember feeling anything but perhaps a little nervous. On other occasions, his cousins would do things like hit him with a wooden horse, try to lock him the closet, and steal his things. And those were during the best of times. This, however, was a very bad time. He had a feeling that the older ones would notice he wasn't crying like the other little kids soon they would notice, and give him something to cry about. When he was sure, they weren't paying attention, to busy whispering sobbing and comforting each other, he crept out of the room. And pasted the sleeping nurse and out into the hall. He was going too go his Mother's room, she always allowed him to sleep next to her. Then he heard his mother's voice coming from downstairs. He stopped and slowly made his progress down the staircase. He followed the sound of her voice to the library. The door was open a crack.

"I don't understand why you're so worried Dilly," said a voice that sounded like it was spun from candyfloss, that was Annalisa. "All the letter says is Lord Smince wants us to go down the palace and answer some questions."

"You don't understand," said his mother. "And don't call me Dilly, I hate that nickname."

"I was never part any conspiracy, neither were any of my children and you weren't right? So we'll be fine," Annalisa said.

"If you weren't as thick as a whale sandwich you'd know that what Lord Smince means by questions is torture, and if you say no he'll torture you until you say yes, and he'll kill everyone of your lovely children before your eyes," Odilia said.

"That's horrid!" gasped Annalisa.

"It's true," Odilia said.

"Oh what should we do?" Annalisa cried.

"Sell your house, get everything of value, take your children, flee Ankh-Morpork, go to your father's castle in the Ramtops, and start again," Odilia said.

"Isn't that drastic? I mean, we have friends they wouldn't allow us to be hurt, and I'm sure the people if Ankh-Morpork wouldn't stand to innocent women and children tortured to death," Annalisa said.

"The same people who cheered at the execution? The same friends who don't even wave when they see us in the street? Do even think that our Patrician would tell anyone what happened to us, we'd just disappear and no one would do anything about it! You naïve, ignorant, stupid, cow I-"

"Odilia, sssshhhhh!"

"Just why are you shushing me?"

"There's a little girl12 watching us," said Annalisa

"You there, child, come in here!" Odilia yelled and flung the doors open.

He considered running. They might blame one of his cousins. However, while that thought was in his head, the doors of the library were thrown open. His aunt and his mother stared at him.

They were both wearing long black dresses, for mourning. Annalisa's hair was a golden nimbus against the light behind her, almost like a halo, and Mother's hair a tight dark bun that blended into her silhouette. They walked towards him.

"Oh, Havelock, it's you," said his mother. Then she immediately grabbed him and swept him up in her arms, so his head was resting about where her collarbone was.

"Hi, there what are you doing here?" Annalisa said, smiling at him; her voice was like aural treacle.

Most children would have scared by what they heard and only half understood; they would have blurted out something. He was different. So he put a thumb in his mouth and said, "I had a bad dream."

"Poor dear!" Annalisa exclaimed.

"Don't suck your thumb, boy!" his mother said, wrenching the thumb from his mouth.

"Dilly, don't be so hard. He's had a nightmare and no wonder after..." Annalisa paused, her face contorted in a sad expression. "What happened. Poor little lamb."

"How many times I have told you? Don't call me Dilly," Mother said.

Havelock stuck out his tongue when they weren't looking. A nurse had put some kind of bitter substance on his thumb on Mother's instructions to discourage him from sucking on it. He had just done it because it was something Aunt Annalisa thought little children did, although he resented being called a lamb.

Mum had brought him into the library. He sat on her lap, and Aunt Annalisa called for a maid. When the maid came his mother asked her for a small cup of warm milk - not scalding and not ice cold. She rocked him a little on her lap. Were they going to torture everyone? Was Lord Smince going to kill them all? Could they make it out of the city? His Aunt fussed over him, but Mother said nothing, and he said nothing. He stared into the fire.

The milk came, it was warm perfectly warm. Mother reached into a pocket in her dress and took out a little vial of white liquid, poppy juice. She put a small amount in the milk. They watched him closely as he drank it. He immediately felt tired, closed his eyes, and slipped off into a dreamless sleep.

A large bump in the road jostled him out this memory. It was dark now and they were headed towards an inn.

Roberta Meserole looked at the two letters. One was from an Evelyn Sachet, the other from a Hubert M. Brass. The first one told the death of Odilia Vetinari-De prav, the other said her nephew had just left Ankh-Morpork. She smiled when she read the first letter.

She had never liked Odilia. In fact, she loathed her.

She conceded both her brothers had made very poor choices in marriage. When she married the late Lord Meserole, the choice had been made for her by her parents. Her brothers, however, choose those women by their own free will.

Firstly, there was the late Annalisa, who saw the world as a place of happy little bunnies and fluffy pink clouds, whose brow furrowed every time she was thinking hard. At least she had been attractive and malleable.

Then, however, her favorite Brother Thurston had gone off on a hunting trip near Quirm and come back engaged to one Odilia De prav. A woman a good ten years older than him, tactless as a punch in the nose, as humorless as a crypt, with the face of a horse with a bad toothache, the gait of a heron and from a family which had given the disc Gilles De prav and the Marquis De prav.

They all thought Stany could be brought round when he had first come back, that maybe if he around some eligible women of the right class in Ankh-Morpork he'd forget the hag. It had the reverse effect: the more pretty young things paraded before him desperate to make his acquaintance, the more he insisted the she was only woman for him. He'd always been stubborn like that.

Roberta had been sixteen at the time of Odilia's first visit to her parents' house. Odilia, despite what they had heard, had endeavor to make a good impression: she was clever, she spoke Good Morporkian with just the merest hint of an accent, dressed nicely, and after a few glasses of wine her tactlessness seemed charming. But it was something in the way she looked at Thurstanthat made Roberta loathe her. It was the shrewd calculated glances that Odilia gave him when she was sure he wasn't looking. The look said: 'marrying you is simply an escape from a convent.'

Roberta couldn't forgive her for that. True, she herself had been married by proxy and packed off on a journey of 200 miles to be the wife of a man for whom she had as much regard for as a dead fish. However Thurstan had deserved better, he had deserved someone who loved him.

Someone who'd last words before he was sent off to be executed weren't: 'Stand up straight and stop sniveling; you'll embarrass yourself in public.'

Then there was the child, Havelock. She looked at a miniature that Mr. Sachet had procured for her. The subject was a pallid, sickly, unhappy little boy, in a little blue suit with his hair parted to the side. Odilia had smothered the boy from the start. The boy was hardly out her sight and Odilia kept dismissing nurses for trivial reasons: being too young, too old, punishing the child to severely, not punishing him enough, and in the most infamous case having a tone that Odilia didn't like. This puzzled Roberta; under the age when children could make intelligent conversation, they should be left to nurses, who were paid to torelate vast amounts of childish babble.

Not only that, the ill thought out conspiracy to overthrow Lord Smince rested principally on that termagant's shoulders.

It was soon; very few people knew what kind of a monsterLord Smincewas at the timeYes, Lord Simnce had been enjoyed torturing people, was overly fond of prepubescent boys, and on occasion, had dressed as woman and called himself Lorriane. He really hadn't done much harm at the time. And she joined in earnest to help her brothers. It wouldn't have worked; it was too ill timed, in two or three years it might have worked.

But that was years ago. Now the boy was coming to her. She hoped he wouldn't be too much like his mother.

They were walking into the inn. Mr. Brass was smiling down on him.

"You haven't smiled, kid. What's wrong wiv you?" Mr. Brass said.

He simply looked into the dirt of the inn yard, and down at his scuffed shoes.

"You hardly talk; you don't smile. Well, I got something to help that."

"What, Mister Brass," he said in a monotone with absolutely no question in the voice.

"Well," Mr. Brass didn't seem to notice the tone or lack thereof, because he was looking at an attractive guest of the inn boarding her carriage. "There is this thing I know..."

With that the horrid man reached down and plucked at the boy's nose. The boy pulled back instinctively. Mr. Brass drew back triumphant a grin lighting up his feature.

"Lookie, I got yer nose!" He said waving his fist.

"No you haven't," said the young master in the same small, quiet, serious voice.

"Yes I do, look," Mr. Brass said, holding up his fist to the boy.

"That's you thumb. I can see your fingernail," said Havelock.

"You're no fun. My nieces in Genua love that one," Mr Brass sighed, opening his hand. He looked quite dejected for a few moments. Then, feeling in his coat pockets, suddenly he brightened up. His hand darted near the boy's head.

"Look I what I got from your ear," Mr. Brass said holding out a shiny gold coin.

Havelock took the coin, turned in his hand, and looked at it. Then he looked up at Mr. Brass and said: "it was in your hand the whole time."

Mr. Brass said nothing but looked murderous.

At the inn, Mr. Brass got two bowls of stew. He ate it heartily but Havelock looked at his bowl and felt sicker. It wasn't the food; he just had no appetite and the sight of food made him ill. He watched the bowl minute after minute, only managing to take a few minuscule sips, which made feel very ill.

"What's wrong with that boy?" said the barmaid who had served them. "That's cook's specialty; everyone always likes it. It has real cow in it, it does."

"His Mum died a week ago," said Mr. Brass. "He's being sulky."

"Oh, poor little mite," cooed the barmaid.

Havelock didn't look up from his stew. He was watching a fly drowning in the broth.

"Would you like a biscuit and some milk it's hardly bad?" He heard the woman saying.

He looked down at his shoes when the question was asked. He didn't likethe sound of the milk,however he didn't say anything.

The maid mistook his silence for snobbishness, huffed and walked off.

It was later that night. The room they gave Havelock was a musty and stuffy garret on the top most floor. When he lay on the bed a cloud of dust came up. He could hear the noise and bustle of the inn beneath him. He looked up at the dark ceiling. The minutes went by with the slowness of centuries. The people below were singing something he couldn't quite hear. The slanting ceiling was dark. He had to go sleep; he knew that. He had a long journey tomorrow. The past week had been a whirl of preparation, and packing; he had just been exhausted and dropped into slumber. Now, however, small things that had been nagging at the edges of his mind crept in. He tried not to think of anything - that was the trick of going to sleep. Comforting thoughts of burbling brooks and fuzzy animals didn't work, they would always twist in his head so the brook would be running with blood and the fuzzy animals dead and being picked by ravens. So nothing, he thought of swirling blackness and yet he could feel worries and doubts there. When he had been small, there was a simple solution to this problem. He would slip out the nursery door and climb into his mother's bed, somehow when he was near her all the worries melt away, and he could sleep. He hadn't done that sort thing since he was six - well, actually seven and a half. And he could see her stern thin face, in the candlelight as it had looked that last time. He could hear her saying, 'This has to be the last time boy. You're getting too old and the servants are starting to talk.' He could just see her the rare smile that appeared on her thin lips.

And now he could feel tears sliding down his cheek. He didn't want to cry, he didn't want to cry, he shouldn't be crying. But he was. He'd never hear her voice again, never see he face, never spend endless days playing board games with her, never spend nights by the fire reading passages out loud to each other, never go to public executions with her when the weather was nice and bet each other nuts how long the condemned would 'dance' for, and he would never love anyone as much he loved her.

He buried his face in the dusty pillow and he wept violently, resentfully. He tried to calm down, because he knew on an intellectual level that he didn't need love, he needed to survive. But there were other levels ones so far down and deep, that wouldn't listen and couldn't even begin to understand that being tortured by the cruelest person with all the implements of pain in all the Disc would only be one-tenth of the pain he was feeling.

All the bits of his mind that were above this level rejected this, because it sounded silly.

He sniffled, wiped his eyes, and stared at the ceiling. The inn now rose and fell with the snores of the patrons.

And a horrible realization stole over him, which at the time seemed so devastating at the emotional level, that the intellectual level threw up its hands sighed and walked away. The realization was that no one would ever love him as much or as deeply as she loved him.

He desperately tried not to cry, mustering all the willpower he could. And he didn't, he didn't sleep either and was still staring at the ceiling when the birds began to chirp and the gray light of dawn furtively scurried into the room.

1 Also the fact, that despite being senile old fools, they had outlived her.

21 Odilia Vetinari kept her son in skirts and curls until he was six, a fact that is not widely know because early images of Lord Vetinari have mysteriously vanished and any artist who painted such portraits somehow forgot what he looked like.


	2. Chapter 2

-1The letters that Lady Meserole received about the journey were disheartening. According to Mr. Brass the child was obstinate, hardly ate, hardly slept, had stopped talking half-way through the third week, flinched if anyone even attempted to touch him and spent hours staring blankly at nothing.  
This did not sound good at all. The boy appeared to be withering on the vine. The last of Vetinaris would die# before he even got his chance on the stage of life.  
There was a slight upside however, Mr. Brass had been accountant for several of her businesses in Genua. Roberta had suspicions about him. Now that he was gone, her private sectary Rawelston had checked the ledgers and noticed how little bits of money seemed to disappear into thin air. Whether or not her nephew ever made it to Genua Mr. Brass was going to shorter and most unpleasant life when he got back.

Memories are harder to kill then most people think. They may fade and dissolve with age. Life blurs together into one big mass days seem to become years and years turn into decades. However when you are child there is so much more of your life to live and so little behind that everyday seems longer and dearth of experience lends emphasis to the experience.  
Memories that was what Havelock was looking at when he staring into space.

He was eight, sitting by his Mother, in their carriage eating salted nuts. Mother had been feeling ill ever since they left Quirm five months ago. The scene outside his window was a familiar one; the crowd, the gallows, the hangman and the condemned rattling to the scaffold on a cart. They both enjoyed going to public hangings, it was free exciting, real, entertainment.

"How long do think he'll dance for boy?" Mother said. "I'll wager three nuts he'll not be ten minutes."

"I think your wrong," Havelock said. "the hangman is a new one, and I think they've underestimated the amount of slack in the rope. He'll dance there for twenty minutes."  
They watched as the prisoner walked through the crowd and onto the platform.

"Stealing a bolt of linen, a tuppence worth of cheese and a cabbage," She said with a smirk. "He's being killed to set an example, the new Patrician wants show he's tough on crime. Even while he's plundering the treasury."

"The example that you shouldn't get caught," he said. "Or be poor."

"Exactly so," she said.

Havelock had never understood why traditional jokes or pranks were so humorous. Now found the ludicrousness, the unfairness of the strange situation struck him as hysterically hilarious and he burst out giggling.  
His mother gave him a hit him in the arm and glared.

"Don't laugh out loud boy it makes you seem an idiot," she said sharply. "If find something amusing smile. But don't smile all the time or you'll look foolish or suspicious."

"Yes, M'am," he said.

The noose was around the unfortunate's neck. The man said his last words, they were unremarkable really. The trapdoor dropped, they watched man twitch and jerk for about fifteen minutes.

"I saw another doctor," she said. "He thinks I'm dying."

He was jarred by this announcement. "Mother?"

"Don't fret," she said. "I didn't believe him, he was cheap and got his training in heathen Klatch. I've just been tired lately and I'm not used to the city air, that's all."

He didn't say anything at the time, He wanted to believe her. However she wasn't convinced herself, she wouldn't have been consulting doctors if she had been sure. She wouldn't have made that strange announcement if she had just thought it was due to the change in scenery. He didn't know why he was still alive really, no one else cared whether he lived or died.  
The rain was hammering down on the coach roof, the sky was a dark gray and road felt bumpier.

There was cry outside of "Stand and deliver!" And the coach stopped. There were three or four large, unshaven, and heavily armed men. He had read about Highwaymen, and even seen a few hanged. They didn't look dashing like ones in the books and they didn't look frightened like the ones on the scaffold. They were ordered to leave the coach at crossbow point. The rain was pounding down on him now. In the time they were walked to side of road he had been soaked to the skin.  
One of the Highwaymen was threatening Mr. Brass, who was quivering.  
"Gimme all you're money." The snarling Highwayman demanded.  
"Here." Mr. Brass whimpered shoving some coins into the man's hand.  
The robber stuck the crossbow under Mr Brass's chin. "All of it you horrid little dog's tonker."  
He watched Mr. Brass shudder, and snivel. "I-I- I was getting all of it," Mr. Bras said and handed the Highway robber another handful of coins. When the man had turned his back. Mr. Brass added in a low mutter: "I hope you choke on it."

Havelock said nothing, he handed the man his coin and went back to staring at the ground. This wouldn't have happened if Mother had been alive. When they left Ankh-Morpork , in the first town they stopped at she had hired large, rough men with crossbows and pipes. Mr. Brass was an moron, he didn't like being this wet for this long. The robbers were searching the trunks and luggage for valuables. He stood in the rain watching them as they dumped his clothing on the ground as they ripped his books in two to check if something was hidden in the spine. He shivered in rain and began to cough. A cough that didn't seem to stop only pause for just enough time for him to catch his breath.  
He was still coughing when the robbers left them, to pack up their muddied belongings. He was still was cold and damp two hours later they came to an inn.  
Havelock wondered briefly how exactly they were going to afford it. Then he saw Mr. Brass take a small knife and slit open the lining of his jacket and took out a small pouch of coins. He grinned and said: "I kept this from the bas-" then he remembered how old his traveling companion was "gits didn't take this."   
They got out at the Inn yard. The rain was coming down in sheets and here and there lightening flashed. This time Havelock had remembered to wear his oilskin cloak. Mr. Brass knocked at inn door. A beefy man answered.

"What do you want?" The man said.

"Are you the landlord here?" Mr. Brass asked.

"Yes," the man said.

"Do you have any rooms for us tonight?" Mr. Brass said.

"No, sorry all them have been taken hours ago sir." The Landlord said.

"We'll take a bed, you have a spare bed?" Mr. Brass asked.

"No, sir sorry," The Landlord said.

Mr. Brass poured out some coins in his hands. "This will get us some accommodation, right?"  
The Landlord smiled. "That it will," he said. "You can sleep in the hayloft over the stables. But I'll have to charge you extra, for the bedding brought up there."

So that night, he lay awake in the hayloft, while Mr. Brass snored. The roof sprung a leak right over Havelock's head at point, for a space of five minutes he let the water fall on his forehead, attempting to count each drip. Then when it got to annoying he shifted himself away from the leak. He was asleep at point he must have because there was an hour or two which vanished from memory. He was awakened by a rat running over his hand or was it nibbling on it? He wasn't quite sure but kept hands on his chest.  
In morning he ached, he wasn't sure how it happened but every bit of him ached. Later in the day came the chills, the cough and then he wasn't chilly anymore because he was suddenly too hot. Which didn't make any sense because he was still shivering. He'd fall asleep, but it didn't feel like normal sleep, because you could wake up at anytime with normal sleep. This type of sleep suffocated him, and drowned him when he tried to wake up. He couldn't wake up, even when he wanted too. He drifting in out of sleep and pain. He noticed they were in the mountains now.  
Also The coach had stopped.

He stirred himself awake and looked out the window. They were in front of a farmhouse.  
he closed his eyes again.

"C'mon," Mr. Brass said. "This old woman says we can stay here they have room to spare."

Havelock got up, every step hurt, he really wanted his Mother so badly now. He shouldn't but everything hurt and he was too hot, and weak. He took a step out the coach, his legs gave way and he fell to the ground. He didn't know exactly what happened next because everything went black.

When he woke up, in was laying in an unfamiliar bed. Under lots of unfamiliar blankets. He saw Mr. Brass was in room also there was an old woman. There were sounds of busy farm coming from beyond the walls.

"The child's burning up with fever," The old woman said. "Poor thing may not have long."

"Yes, yes I know," Mr. Brass said. "isn't there something you can do?"

"He's gone beyond my help sir," she said.

"Can't you get a doctor?" Mr. Brass asked.

"There's no doctor around these parts, Sir," she said.

"Fine. An apothecary then, get a bloody apothecary," Mr. Brass said.

"Nearest apothecary is a weeks ride," said the woman.

"So your just going to let him die? You can't do that! If I go to Genua and the brat isn't with me hale and hardy I'll," Mr. Brass began then contemplating things to horrible to voice aloud. "get in trouble."

"I sent Our Ned for the witch sir," said the old woman.

"I don't want some old hag messing with him," Mr. Brass said. "The last thing we need is crazy old bat in pointy hat dangling dead chickens over-"

There was the sound of the door opening and feet entering the room. There was quiet.

"Oh, sorry Madam," Mr. Brass said sounding suddenly frightened of something.

"Looks like our Ned did fetch her," the old woman said a little smugness in her tone.

"I'll just leave now," Mr. Brass said.

There were hurried footsteps down the stairs. Then a woman's voice said: "I wouldn't do that, it'd be a waste of good chicken."  
He opened his eyes, there was a woman standing there and she was indeed wearing the pointed hat of a witch. He peeked at her, she sort of looked like mother, and there was something else about her aspect, a certain iron hardness that reminded him of her.

He couldn't resist the woman he tried, but she had will much stronger then his weakened one. So he drank what she gave him, some of it was broth some he wasn't sure of. Or at least he appeared to drink it, he spit up what he could when she wasn't looking.

He hated being fed potions and herbs the last time someone tried something like that on him he had been five. It had been Aunt Annalisa in her final hours.

There were soldiers at the gate, not actually soldiers but Lord Smince's private guard. Grandfather Comso had gone to talk to them. All eight of the children where in the Nursery, Aunt Annalisa was there looking after them. Their ages ranged from twelve to under a year.

"Don't worry," Annalisa cooed. "Grandpa is making sure everything is going to be okay. In the mean time, the cook is sending up some scrummy hot chocolate, biscuits and I'll read you a story."  
She spoke with a smile that faltered at the edges.

There was shouting and crashing noises coming from outside.

"What was that?" Gylian, her eldest said. As the children rushed to the window.

"I'm sure it was nothing," Annalisa replied. "Don't become to excited before bedtime."

The tray of hot chocolates had arrived via dumb waiter, to distract them.

"Mummy, I'm scared," said Honoria who was just four.

"Look we have our lovely chocolates, happy tales and all our family here, nothing can hurt you," Annalisa said, bending down to kiss the girl's forehead. "I won't let it."

Annalisa was picking up the storybook, when an urgent knock at the door. His cousins squabbled over biscuits. She put the book down, walked over and cautious cracked the door open. In the crack Havelock could see his Mother's face. She was speaking in a whisper to Annalisa. Havelock moved from the other children and strained to hear.

"Did they go away?" Annalisa asked.

"No, they didn't take the bribe," Mother said.

"What happened? We heard noises."

"They killed Comso, didn't even bother listening to him, just slit his throat."

"Oh Gods."

"Our guards are fighting them, but I don't think-"

"Oh gods, we're doomed."

"Look I've got a carriage all ready-"

"I don't think there is time-"

"Listen just keep the children calm until I come back."

Then the door was shut. Havelock saw his Aunt's face quiver and the sorrow in her eyes. Then like switch was flipped her face became a mask of resolute determination.  
"What was that Mum?" Gylian asked.

"Nothing dear, now it's time for chocolate and your story!" She said voice so buoyant you could float rocks on it.

She turned her back and spent a minute over the tray. Havelock didn't see what she was doing, but he could have swore he saw her put a vial of something into a pocket of her dress, also the cups of chocolate seemed a bit fuller.  
She smiled as she handed the cups around, an older cousin brought her baby Yubert and she held him on her lap. 

"Drink up my darlings," she said.

Havelock watched as his cousins consume their chocolate.

"This smells odd," said Havelock .

"Now sweetie, don't complain because it isn't perfect just enjoy your treat," she said.

Havelock brought the cup to his lips and pretended to take a sip, then brought it down again.  
She read the story as the others drank their chocolate. He closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep.  
Soon all his cousins became suddenly, violently ill. They shook, they vomited, their eyes were wide and unfocused.

Aunt Annalisa watched them, as one by one they died. Tears streaming down her face as the baby fussed and cried on her lap. "I'm sorry, forgive me. But this is better then the palace dungeons, my darlings."  
She had the vial out and was attempting to feed it's contents to Yubert, but the baby kept spitting it out and was crying loudly.  
Havelock crawled in a corner, he kept still he kept his eyes closed. Cousin Yubert was crying shrilly. There was a piercing scream a wet thump against the wall, then no more crying. He could hear Annalisa weeping and mumbling. He opened his eyes Annalisa was covered with blood, she was cradling Yubert to her breast or at least what remained of him his head, broken open like a egg only filled with blood and brains. She looked so disoriented, she was holding the open vial of poison in open hand. He shut his eyes again, trying to look dead, if she saw he was alive she'd kill him.

There was more terrible noise, retching, cries of pain and then the room was silent. He opened his eyes. His aunt was lying on the floor her eyes wide and empty, her hands curled in her death agony, a dribble of green posion sliding down the corner of her mouth. Her hair was still wet from Yubert's blood and her skin was warm when Havelock touched it.

He heard heavy footsteps coming towards the door, he lay down on the floor , he tried not the breath to much, he balled his fists and opened his eyes staring at the ceiling, in the same aimless way the corpses did. The door opened, there was man's voice.

"Yea gods! Their all dead! This isn't right."

"Steady there Tom, the woman must of poisoned all the kiddies, then did herself. His Lordship won't like this. Nothing here, only one woman. The other must be still in the house."

The men's footfalls got fainter and fainter, he blinked, coughed and took a deep breath. He was beginning to wriggle out a bit of stiffness in his muscles. When the footsteps came back they were light and rapid, it sounded like there was only one person this time. He closed his eyes, went limp and let his tongue loll from his mouth.

The door was thrown open, he heard footsteps enter the room.

"Gods damn that brainless, mad cunt! If she had just kept a cool head we would all be alive."  
It was Mother's voice, he breathed out and sat up. Her back was to him. "Where's my son!? Where's my Havelock? If she killed my boy.. If he's dead…"

"Here I am Mother," he said.

She whipped around, her dark eyes fixing on him, even in this chaos she was trim and neat as always. She sprinted to him and caught him up in her thin arms. She cradled his head and kissed his cheeks and held him so tightly it hurt.

"You didn't swallow anything your Aunt gave you?"

"No."

"Are any of your cousins still alive?"

"No, I think their all dead."

"She didn't hurt you, you aren't bleeding anywhere are you?"

"No, I pretended, to be dead. "

There was no panic in her voice it was as steady and hard just like she was telling him off for climbing a tree or a touching vase.

"We have to go boy, hold on."

And with that she took to her feet. It was then he smelled her sweat, it was then he noticed how wide her eyes were and felt her heartbeat thudding in chest. He also felt the jewels and coins she had sewn into her dress. As she ran she jingled and clinked. She moved so swiftly.

They went down a servant's staircase between the walls. In the darkness and stuffiness of the narrow winding staircase she ran and ran.

# There where some distant cousins and a few elderly relics but they didn't count

Comso The Mediocre, Paternal Grandfather of Havelock. A shrewd man, his self chosen title caused many of his rivals to fatally underestimate him.


End file.
